Thick Skin

Oh, to have skin that's thick and tough
Where nothing's really strong enough
To penetrate and cause a wound,
Too thick to even be harpooned.

Some lucky souls are built that way
And keep life's stings and barbs at bay,
Protected by such armored skin
That nothing hurtful trickles in.

Alas, my skin's like cellophane;
Each minor pinprick causes pain.
An upgrade to a thicker hide
Would help slough off my wounded pride.

Interlude with Play Doh

Roll it out or squoosh it flat;
Make a pie or cobbler,
But the eater must be
An imaginary gobbler.

Form a bunch of little balls;
Fill a little bucket.
Poke some holes and when you're done 
You might decide to chuck it.

If you do, just mush it up
And stuff in its container.
Kids and time and Play Doh?
I would say a real no-brainer!

A Firefighter's Funeral

The streets are lined with firefighters,
Standing at attention,
Their uniforms, so freshly pressed,
Deserving of a mention.

The flag-draped coffin then arrives,
The silence absolute
As, on command, each white-gloved hand
Is raised in crisp salute.

The widow, clinging to her kids,
Is gently led inside.
The church fills up, with all the seats
And aisles occupied.

The eulogy’s predictable –
A hero died, of course.
The same most likely would be said
Of each one on the force.

A firefighter’s funeral
Is solemn, sad and proud,
A fitting tribute to a soul
Whose courage was unbowed.

The American Cockroach

An interesting fact that I read
‘Bout the cockroach (American bred)
Is how it is unique;
It can live for a week
Even if it is missing its head.

For those people who live in much dread
Of these creatures and pray they’ve all fled,
There would still be a shriek
If one, headless, would streak
Since the best kind of cockroach is dead!

Orchids

The orchids in the Garden show,
So gorgeous, on display,
Must wonder what they’re doing there
In colorful array.

For it’s a long way off from where
They usually grow,
Where animals and insects
Are the creatures that they know.

Yet here the crowds come traipsing
To take photographs and gawk,
For orchids aren’t native to
The boroughs of New Yawk.

I’m sure they’d rather be back home
In jungle/forest setting,
But maybe they’re enjoying
The attention that they’re getting.

French

In the orchestra of languages
Nobody would dispute
That French, with honeyed cadence,
Would be likened to the flute.

I pass a French school every day
And hear the conversation –
So smooth and silky that from English
It’s like a vacation.

The melting pot that is New York
Enables me to hear
A wealth of tongues all chattering
Into the atmosphere.

But only French has silvery tones
Like flutes when they are playing
And I enjoy the sounds although
I know not what they’re saying!

Safari

Our friends went on safari;
We enjoyed their tales and pics.
The guides escorted them to bed,
Their weapons only sticks.

Yet once inside their tents they heard
Some lions in a fight.
With predators so close, I know
I’d never sleep at night.

Another day a hippo started
Making an approach.
The guide called out, “Get in the jeep!”
Which was their touring coach.

The wildlife photos did impress,
The settings gorgeous, too,
But I’m content with what I see
When I am at the zoo.